I sleep with a recording of thunderstorms playing in my room every night. Recently, the thunder stopped responding to me.

I sleep with a recording of thunderstorms playing in my room every night. It’s a routine I started years ago, when a bad storm rolled in one night and I couldn’t sleep. My mother brought my television into my room and played some calming videos. It worked like a charm. She did it every night for years, and when I hit college, it was a habit that I continued.<br><br>When I was a kid, she’d sometimes say things like, “Don’t you want to turn that off? It’s obnoxious.”<br><br>Or, “Why don’t you put on a cartoon? It’s more fun.”<br><br>I’d talk back, saying things like, “Oh, it’s okay, Thunder! I love you!”<br><br>Of course, I had stopped doing that years ago. Still, the night the Thunder stopped responding was the night I’d been drinking. I remember waking up, looking at the TV, and saying, “Hey, Thunder! Do you want to go for a walk? Or maybe a drive? Or maybe something else entirely?”<br><br>The TV stayed silent.<br><br>I laughed at the joke and went back to sleep.<br><br>The next night, I had another drink. It was a good one—a martini with a sprig of fresh mint, and I remember saying with a chuckle, “Hey, Thunder, would you like a sip?”<br><br>The thunder paused for a moment, and I laughed and said, “Ha! Oh, you’re a no drinker! No worries.”<br><br>Why did it matter? It didn’t. But it occurred to me that the thunder hadn’t responded since that first night.<br><br>I was a kid then. I don’t know if it was real or just my imagination. But now, as I got out of bed to close the door, and the thunder paused, and I heard it.<br><br>What was it?<br><br>I couldn’t describe it.